


Hazel Eyes I Was So Color Blind

by poetzproblem



Series: Don't Blink [33]
Category: Glee
Genre: Epiphanies, F/F, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Humor, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 07:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10458705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetzproblem/pseuds/poetzproblem
Summary: “She’s my best friend,” Rachel defends, suddenly feeling very protective of their relationship. She’d worked so hard for it, and they’ve come so far from where they’d started. Of course Quinn’s good opinion means everything to her.Number 33 in theDon’t Blinkseries (otherwise known as the epiphany).





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** Occurs between _Just A Little Bit Caught_ and _My Life Before Me Undone_. Warning for original male character in the form of Rachel's ex-boyfriend.
> 
> As always, thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being an awesome beta.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or the characters. I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

 

 _Hazel eyes, I was so color blind_  
_We were just wasting time_  
_For my whole life, we never crossed the line_  
_Only friends in my mind, but now I realize_  
_It was always you.  
_ _~It Was Always You, Maroon 5_

* * *

Rachel is still on an extended high from the recent announcement of her very first (of many, she hopes) Tony nomination when she gets the phone call. Roxette's mournful proclamation that _it must have been love but it's over now_ has her jumping in surprise, and she fumbles for her phone. Glancing down, Rachel confirms that it is, in fact, Peter Kendrick's name flashing on the screen. After nearly two years, she'd honestly forgotten that she still had his number saved in her phone or that she'd changed his ringtone to that song shortly after their breakup. In the back of her mind, she's a little surprised that he still even _has_ the same phone number after moving to London, but mostly she's curious why he's suddenly calling her out of the blue after all this time, so of course she answers the call with a cautious, "Hello?"

The voice on the other end of the line unmistakably belongs to Peter.

He tells her that he's back in New York, that he's moving "home" for good and he's hoping to reconnect with old friends.

"We were more than _friends_ ," she reminds him wistfully, tucking her hair behind her ear as she lets her mind take a leisurely stroll down memory lane. They'd had some good times together before his wanderlust had taken him across the ocean, and Rachel hasn't been seriously involved with a man since Peter had left. She isn't at the point of feeling desperate to be half of a couple again, but she does miss the comfort of being with a long-term partner. She just hasn't seemed to click with anyone she's dated since Peter.

" _We were_ ," Peter confirms tenderly. " _But we were friends first. I was hoping you might be open to meeting me for coffee, or maybe dinner? We can…catch up."_

Rachel cradles the phone closer to her ear, enjoying the way Peter's smooth voice washes over her even through the cell connection. It's even richer than she recalls, and there's something in it—something beyond the faint trace of an accent that seems to have followed him home—that sounds promising.

It feels like a sign; first the Tony nomination and now Peter.

"Dinner," she agrees, making up her mind just that easily.

It seems like a good decision—at least until she mentions it to Quinn.

"I can't believe you agreed to have dinner with him," Quinn mutters from her seat across from Rachel at The Sosta. The restaurant had opened in Little Italy about two months ago, but she and Quinn hadn't had the opportunity to try it out until now. Quinn had suggested it for their Thursday outing this week since she's been craving Italian.

"He wants to catch up," Rachel defends, feeling a tiny knot of apprehension form in her stomach at the clear disapproval glimmering in Quinn's eyes. "It's merely a friendly dinner between two former paramours who parted on amicable terms," she adds hastily, hoping to ease Quinn's concerns, "and I honestly would like to hear about his time in London."

She doesn't miss the subtle pursing of Quinn's lips before they part to needlessly remind her that, "He broke your heart."

"It was a mutual breakup," Rachel insists huffily. Well— _mostly_ mutual.

Quinn sighs as she leans into the table, flicking a fingernail over the condensation on her glass of red wine. "Fine. It was _mutual_ ," she permits with a subtle roll of hazel eyes, "but he still disappointed you, Rachel. I just…don't want that to happen again," she admits softly, glancing away.

Warmth blossoms in Rachel's belly that has nothing to do with the wine she'd been sipping and everything to do with how much Quinn cares about her well-being. Sometimes it still catches her by surprise that they're really here—that she gets to call Quinn her friend and spend these wonderful afternoons with her, whether they're exploring some previously undiscovered nook of the city or sharing little pieces of their lives with one another. It's so much more than she'd ever dared to hope for back in high school.

Instinct has her reaching across the small table to touch the soft, warm skin on the back of Quinn's hand. "I love that you want to prevent me from being hurt, Quinn," she says softly, curling her fingers under Quinn's to give them a grateful squeeze, "but I'm not the same naïve, little schoolgirl I used to be," she promises with a self-deprecating grin. Quinn sucks in a quick breath at the playful jab to their past before releasing it into a soundless laugh, and Rachel brushes her thumb over Quinn's knuckles reassuringly before finally allowing her hand to retreat back to her side of the table. "Peter can't disappoint me when I don't have any expectations."

One sculpted eyebrow arches in an acutely familiar way. "Really? _No_ expectations at all?" Quinn challenges knowingly.

Rachel sighs as she leans back in her chair, silently cursing the fact that Quinn knows her so well. "I wouldn't exactly call them expectations," she corrects mildly, "although I _do_ expect to enjoy the conversation. Peter always did have a certain way with words whenever he talked about the things he loved," she recalls with a fond smile. He's a lot like Quinn in that way.

"And he loved listening to himself talk," Quinn mutters.

Rachel reaches back across the table to flick Quinn's wrist with her fingers. "Don't be mean," she chastises, though she's certain the grin that she can't quite tame cancels out any real censure her words might otherwise carry. While it's true that Peter can dominate a conversation once he gets on a roll—and that had happened at least three times in Quinn's presence after she'd made the mistake of mentioning some book or other she was reading for a class or a play that the Yale theater department was presenting—he's actually fairly soft-spoken most of the time. "I remember the two of you once discussing the feminist agenda in Jane Austen's books for well over an hour."

Quinn glances away, frowning thoughtfully as she distractedly runs the pad of her finger around the rim of her glass. "I suppose he occasionally managed to say a few things of interest. But he left you for London, Rach," she adds quietly, looking back to Rachel with a fierce protectiveness in her eyes. "As your friend, I'm allowed to hold a grudge over that."

Rachel really has no control over the dissonant internal battle that launches within her at Quinn's proclamation. Part of her just wants to sit here and bask in her best friend's unwavering loyalty and affection, but the other part is hoping that she might have a second chance with Peter and would really like Quinn to give him a second chance as well.

"As my friend, I hope you can trust that I know what I'm doing."

Quinn's lips part to form a retort, but she's silenced by the appearance of their waitress, who arrives with their salads and a basket of bread. Rachel has a feeling that she can guess what Quinn wants to say. Rachel's dating history hasn't exactly been stellar, and she's always had the tendency to throw herself headfirst into new romances—and newly rekindled romances—with blinders on to all of her partners' faults until it's too late to climb back out without having suffered more than a few bruises. But Rachel likes to believe that she's been more cautious with her suitors in the last several years. In fact, her relationship with Peter had been (mostly) drama free.

The moment the waitress leaves, Rachel assures Quinn, "I don't expect to simply pick things up with Peter as if the last year and a half never happened. I honestly haven't even thought much about him since he's been gone, Quinn."

And it's true. She'd mourned the end of the relationship for what she'd considered a respectable amount of time, but then—well, she'd just moved on. She'd had classes and auditions and a chance to be in _Wicked_ , albeit only the _ensemble_ , and then she'd had Quinn to comfort after her relationship with Sarah had finally ended last year. And now, of course, Rachel has Quinn right here in New York to occupy her time. Peter has barely been an occasional, fleeting memory for the last year or so at least.

"But when he called, I realized that I would like to see him again," Rachel confesses with a shrug. "I'm sure we're both different people than we were two years ago, but if the old spark is still there, then I'm not adverse to seeing where things might lead now that he's back."

Quinn nods slowly while she studies Rachel through unreadable eyes. "But no expectations," she reiterates as she lifts her glass of wine to take a deliberate sip.

"No expectations," Rachel repeats firmly. "Merely an open mind."

Quinn swallows her wine before drawing in a breath and offering a smile, though Rachel thinks it looks a bit tight around the edges. "I hope you have a wonderful time at dinner with him."

Rachel smiles widely, happy that Quinn is choosing to support her decision. "Thank you, Quinn." She can't help but hope that—should she and Peter find themselves on the road to rekindling their romance—perhaps Quinn and Peter will finally have the chance to truly become friends in their own right. Then everything would be absolutely perfect. "Now I can get back to having a wonderful time at dinner with _you_ ," she gushes, picking up her fork and turning her attention to her salad. "And you can tell me if you have any new lady friends that I'll get to be the protective best friend over," she adds as an afterthought, attempting to be equally as supportive of Quinn as Quinn is of her—even if Quinn's taste in women is typically horrendous.

Quinn laughs at that, shaking her head. "Not at the moment." A smirk paints her lips. "Unless you want to protect me from the carnivorous influence of the sexy redhead who works at the deli down the block from my office."

Rachel's fork pauses at that, and she frowns. "There's a deli girl?" she asks, wondering why she's only hearing about this now.

"Mmhmm," Quinn confirms impishly. "A little flirting, a come-hither smile, and she never fails to turn my salad order into a pastrami on rye."

Rachel shudders in revulsion—at the mention of dead-animal byproducts, of course. "That's…indecent," she mutters petulantly, forcefully spearing a tomato with her fork.

"But _so_ good," Quinn counters with a wicked grin, laughing when Rachel glares at her. "I think I might ask her out though," she considers more seriously, picking up her own fork. "I'm fairly certain the flirting isn't just a tactic to sell me deli sandwiches."

"Oh," Rachel breathes, forcing her lips into an encouraging smile. "Of course." Really, who _wouldn't_ flirt with Quinn? She's gorgeous and smart and successful and just— _Quinn_. "You…you probably should. You never know, right? The perfect person could be waiting for you in the last place you'd expect."

Rachel only wants Quinn to be happy—even if she highly doubts that some pastrami-flinging floozy could possibly be Quinn's _perfect person_.

Quinn sighs—and if it seems a little sad to Rachel, she can't imagine why. "Yeah. You never know," Quinn agrees before seemingly shaking off the odd moment with a genuine smile. "So, other than the ghost of your ex-boyfriend past, what's new in Tony nominee Rachel Berry's world this week?"

It would be impossible not to beam at Quinn after that delightful segue, so Rachel does so without an ounce of shame, relaxing into what will undoubtedly be a far more enjoyable conversation for the rest of their evening together.

_xx_

Rachel only has a matinee performance on Sunday, leaving her evening free, so that's when she agrees to meet Peter. Her only other free nights are Thursdays and—well, she isn't about to cancel her standing date with Quinn.

He offers to pick her up at her apartment like a gentleman should, but Rachel isn't able to entirely silence the little voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Quinn as it warns her not to set her expectations too high, so Rachel suggests meeting at the restaurant instead, just in case their date goes badly. That voice, however, doesn't do a thing to stop her from selecting her favorite little black dress from her closet—the one that makes her legs and ass look fantastic—so Peter will remember exactly what he'd walked away from. She thinks Quinn might even approve of the tactic.

She calls a taxi to pick her up because there's no way she's taking the subway in this dress and the restaurant is too far to hike to on foot in the heels that she's wearing. (The dress _needs_ the heels, obviously, and they make her legs look even more incredible.) Traffic is terrible as usual, but she still manages to arrive at Spring Natural Kitchen with time to spare for their six-thirty reservation.

It's nowhere near the fanciest restaurant in Manhattan—or even in the Upper West Side where it's located—but it was one of their favorites back when they were dating. There's a wide variety of vegan and vegetarian options on the menu for Rachel along with a selection of animal-laden dishes—though mostly organically farmed—for Peter to enjoy. Rachel has been here twice with Quinn as well, (though Quinn has generally been far more willing to experiment with her meals than Peter ever had been) so even if tonight turns out to be a painful reminder to leave the past in the past, she knows that she'll at least enjoy the food.

She gives Peter's name to the host when she arrives, and he offers her a smile and tells her, "Right this way, Miss. The other half of your party is already here."

Peter always has prided himself on his punctuality. _His_ habit of arriving early is much less embarrassing than poor Finn's had ever been.

The host leads Rachel past the aged, red-brick walls that give the place a kind of Bohemian charm and toward a table for two in the back corner of the dining area. A delighted smile blooms on her lips when she spots the familiar face smiling back at her.

"Rachel," Peter greets as he stands, reaching out a hand in silent invitation. She accepts it without a second thought, sliding her hand across his warm palm until it's captured between both of his and gently squeezed in appreciation. "It's so good to see you," he tells her before releasing her hand.

"You too," she returns and means it.

Peter hasn't really changed much since the last time she'd seen him. He's still just as handsome with his boyish smile, clever green eyes, and golden-brown hair combed away from his forehead in a roguish style. And he still fills out a suit to perfection, staying just shy of formal by forgoing a tie. He looks _good_.

A nervous laugh bubbles up when Rachel realizes that she's just kind of standing there, ogling him, and she shakes her head. "Oh, come here," she urges, opening her arms for a hug—because she used to be _in love_ with this man and it's silly to pretend otherwise.

Peter chuckles as he bends to wrap his arms around her in a loose embrace, careful to keep his hands in respectful places. "You look _amazing_ , Rachel," he murmurs against her hair before he lets her go, moving to pull out her chair for her. "The last year and a half has certainly agreed with you."

"I certainly can't complain." She's pleased by his compliments. This dress was definitely the right choice if the way Peter's gaze roaming over her in admiration is anything to judge by. Of course, the last year has been good to Rachel in so many other ways than just the physical, but Peter's appreciation of her appearance certainly doesn't hurt her ego any. "You don't look too shabby yourself," she acknowledges, turning to sink into the chair and wondering if Peter is admiring the view as she smooths the skirt of her dress over her backside on the way down.

"High praise," he jokes, pushing in her chair before he steps around the table to reclaim his own seat. "I'm glad you agreed to see me. I didn't actually expect you to," Peter confesses, shaking out his napkin with a dramatic flourish before dropping it over his lap.

"Why not?" she asks in mild bemusement. "We didn't exactly end on bad terms."

"No, but we still ended," Peter says by way of explanation. "With me leaving the country," he adds after a beat, smiling affably. "And I seem to recall a certain vehemence in your voice when you told me _break a leg_ in London."

Rachel's face heats at the reminder of their last conversation and her somewhat surly goodbye. "I was simply wishing you luck in the grand tradition of the theater," she explains snootily before chuckling a little. "And it seems to have worked. Your show got glowing reviews."

Peter's grin widens. "You went digging through the London trades for me?" he asks, surprised but clearly pleased at the admission.

"I was…curious," Rachel answers honestly. It had been the reason he'd left, after all, and therefore the reason they'd broken up.

When Rachel first met Peter, he'd already had a small handful of off-off-Broadway plays under his belt in addition to the productions put on by the summer acting company of which Rachel had also briefly been a member. One of those plays had been an original production called _Reason Knows Nothing_ —a somewhat dark tale of unrequited love—that had run for two months and gained some decent reviews before closing. The show's writer, Nathan Lander, hadn't been able to scrape up enough funding at the time to mount a production on Broadway (or even off-Broadway), but nearly two years later, he'd managed to interest a backer who wanted to stage a longer and more elaborate production on the West End. Nathan had loved Peter's performance in the original so much that he pushed for him to be cast in the London revival.

Peter had obviously jumped on the opportunity.

Rachel would have done the same if it had been her.

"We'd been together for over a year," she continues, fiddling with her own napkin, "and I still cared about you." And she'd wanted to find out if his leaving her and New York behind had been worth it.

He gazes at her with interest. "Past tense?"

Her lips curve a bit. "I guess that remains to be seen." She doubts that she's ever completely _stopped_ caring about him, but it's different now—a distant hum of pleasant memories that, if given the proper attention, might have the potential to reemerge as something _more_. But it's too soon to make the call.

Peter nods, seemingly satisfied with her answer.

Their waitress makes an appearance at the table just then, serving Peter the draft beer that he'd apparently already requested before inquiring as to whether or not they're ready to order. Peter glances to Rachel with raised eyebrows. "Have you had a chance to decide?"

She's barely looked at the menu since she sat down, but she'd checked it online before leaving her apartment—her nervous energy feeding into her obsessive tendencies—so she tells Peter to, "Go ahead and order," while she quickly scans the entrees again, already ninety-five percent decided on what she'll order.

Peter orders the cavatelli with beef Bolognese with an appetizer of mixed baby greens because, "I've been craving Italian."

Rachel stifles a smile, automatically thinking of her recent dinner with Quinn.

She decides to go with what she knows she likes and orders the stir fry organic vegetables with tempeh 'chicken' and a glass of sauvignon blanc before handing the menu over to the waitress with her thanks.

Alone once again, Peter leans back in his chair with a warm smile before picking up their conversation. "On the subject of glowing reviews, I haven't needed to look very hard at all to find them on Rachel Berry in her stunningly emotional portrayal of Maria in _West Side Story_."

Rachel grins stupidly at the loose quote from the _Times_ —she has that one clipped and pasted in her scrapbook. Oh, who is she kidding? She has them _all_ —well, all the _good_ ones—pasted in her scrapbook.

"And it would have been impossible to miss the Tony nomination," he continues with a proud grin of his own. "Congratulations, Rachel. I always knew you'd make it big."

It's unquestionably sincere. Even before Peter had learned to fully appreciate all the nuances of Rachel's personality, he'd always respected her talent and drive and believed that she would be successful—much like Quinn had done even when their relationship had been a tumultuous powder-keg of teenage angst. And much like with Quinn, Rachel values Peter's support all the more for their imperfect beginnings.

She thanks him for his congratulations before affecting a modest demeanor. "It's an honor just to be nominated."

"But you want to win," he counters with a knowing smile.

"Like you wouldn't believe," she declares without hesitation. The nomination itself means so much to her—validation that she really does deserve to be on Broadway and is exactly as talented as she's always believed—but having that Tony in her hand and her name carved into history with the likes of Liza Minnelli, Patti LuPone, Bernadette Peters, and so many other Broadway legends that Rachel has spent her life idolizing is literally what she's been dreaming of since she was a little girl.

"Quinn keeps telling me not to worry because no one deserves it more than me, but I'm up against so many talented actresses." Like Kristin freaking Chenoweth and Phillipa Soo! "Of course, Quinn was right about me having the nomination in the bag, so I keep hoping she's right about me winning too."

"And how is Quinn these days?" Peter inquires politely before reaching to take a sip of his beer.

"Oh, she's wonderful. She's living in New York now, you know," Rachel shares happily. "She's an assistant editor at HarperCollins."

"That's impressive," Peter comments with a nod—Rachel thinks there's a hint of respect in his expression. There _should_ be. Quinn has a brilliant mind.

"They offered her the job before she'd even officially graduated. Magna cum laude," Rachel boasts, still proud of Quinn for everything she's accomplished since high school. She's come such a long way from the days when she believed she'd be stuck in Lima as a real estate agent. "She'd been considering graduate school straight out of Yale, and she even applied to the program at Columbia," which Rachel had no argument against for obvious reasons, "but HarperCollins wanted her to start immediately. They knew talent when they saw it. Of course, her real talent is writing, but…well, there's plenty of time for that," she declares with a decisive nod. "Quinn is destined for great things."

Peter hums in acknowledgment, though his brow is slightly furrowed in deliberation. Rachel can't imagine _why_ —until he asks, "Is she still seeing that woman…the one you didn't like? Sarah, right?"

Rachel's smile disappears in a heartbeat, slipping into a frown at the unpleasant reminder of Quinn's bothersome ex-girlfriend. "No, thank heavens. Sarah is nothing more than an unfortunate footnote in Quinn's questionable dating history." Albeit a much more significant footnote than the parade of secretaries and law students and _deli girls_ currently decorating the margins of Quinn's personal life.

An odd smile pulls at the corners of Peter's mouth, and he shakes his head. "And what about you? Any footnotes worth mentioning since we parted? Or, you know, currently?"

Shaking off her discontent, Rachel aims a coy smile at Peter. "I'm not involved with anyone at the moment. I've been dating, of course," she's quick to add, not wanting him to think she's been completely lacking in male company since he's been gone, "but nothing serious."

Peter grins at that. "There's no shame in enjoying the single life."

Except she really hasn't been _enjoying_ it all that much—well, if she doesn't count the weekly outings that she's been enjoying with Quinn, and somehow, she doesn't think that's the kind of enjoyment that Peter is referencing.

She doesn't correct him. "Spoken like a man who's been enjoying his," is what she says instead.

"I wasn't lacking for company in London," he confirms with a shrug, "but there was no one serious."

His voice goes kind of soft over the words, his green eyes twinkle with a meaningful glint, and his lips curve into _that_ smile—the one that makes Rachel think maybe he hasn't ever been serious about anyone but _her_ and maybe he might want to be serious with her _again_ someday soon. There's definitely _something_ fluttering in her belly, but before she can really figure out what it is, their waitress is returning with her glass of wine, interrupting the moment, and that little flutter of _whatever_ sinks into an odd sort of relief.

Rachel reaches for the glass almost immediately and takes a hardy drink.

"So tell me about London," she prompts as she sets down her glass, hoping to steer the conversation on to less intimate things until she can decide if she really wants them to go there again. And honestly, she really does want to know all about his time abroad. "What's the West End like?"

"It's like Broadway, only very British," Peter answers wryly.

"Peter! Be serious."

He laughs then, relaxing into his chair with a shake of his head. "It's really not that different, Rachel," he reiterates, wearing a gleeful smirk. "Some of the theatres are older and have a more colorful history, of course, but walking through the West End is hardly any different than walking through the theater district here. The actors all want to give brilliant performances in successful shows and the audiences all want to be entertained. And if you're in the mood for a hamburger, there's probably a McDonald's the next block over."

McDonald's? "Ew, gross," Rachel exclaims, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Tell me you didn't eat there."

Peter holds his hands up in playful surrender. "Hey, don't judge me. There were times when I just needed some good, old-fashioned American food."

"I wouldn't classify that as _good_ ," Rachel argues with a roll of her eyes.

"But it _is_ distinctly American," Peter defends. "I stopped there once or twice, though I usually headed for the Five Guys or the T.G.I. Fridays when I had a craving for home," he continues mischievously, "but the burgers never tasted quite the same as they do here."

"I wouldn't know," she reminds him haughtily.

"So you're still vegan," he deduces, although her dinner order should have already made that perfectly clear.

"Of course. And you're obviously still a stubborn carnivore," because _his_ dinner order had confirmed that for her even before he'd decided to wax poetic over fast food hamburgers.

" _Omnivore_ is more accurate," he corrects, obviously having a grand time debating his eating habits with her. "But I am still firmly anti-tofu," he proudly proclaims, pointing a finger at her warningly, "so don't go attempting to sway me to the joys of meat substitutes like you used to."

Rachel muffles her amusement with an irritated huff. "You're worse than Quinn. At least she tries the vegan options before deciding she doesn't like them."

"Well, Quinn obviously has a far more adventurous palate than I," Peter dismisses without a trace of guilt over his culinary inflexibility. "Although I did try a few different foods while I was over there," he goes on to confess. "I preferred the Irish fare offered up at some of the taverns around London over the French cuisine, even if Paris itself was breathtaking."

As if Rachel isn't already envious that Peter had gotten to perform in London! "You went to Paris?"

He flashes a completely unapologetic smile. "After _Reason Knows Nothing_ ended its run last May, I hopped over to Paris with my flatmates for a couple of weeks."

"Oh…you just…hopped over?" Rachel repeats with a wave of her hand. "No big deal."

Peter chuckles, leaning forward as if he's about to share some long kept secret. "There's a high-speed train. Very convenient."

"I think I'm jealous," she admits on a sigh. The only place she's been able to _hop over_ to by train was New Haven back when she used to visit Quinn at Yale, and while New Haven is a lovely little town, it certainly isn't Paris.

"It _is_ a beautiful city," Peter declares with a sympathetic nod. "We did all the cheesy touristy things," he recalls, a boyish smile lighting his face. "We rode to the top of the Eiffel Tower, strolled down the Champs-Élysées, toured the Louvre, visited Notre Dame. We even went inside the Palais Garnier, but alas," he laments, frowning in regret as he presses a hand over his heart, "there was no phantom lurking in box five."

He punctuates the statement with a wink, and Rachel feels her face heat at the sudden memory of a certain half mask that Peter had owned when they'd been dating and some of the activities they'd engaged in while he'd worn it. She has no doubt that's exactly why he'd mentioned that particular Parisian landmark.

"I think I hate you right now," she mutters good-naturedly.

He laughs outright at that, deep and resonant. "Don't hate me, Rachel. Just put a trip to Paris on your list of goals to accomplish. I think you'd appreciate the romance of the city."

She probably would. She _knows_ that Quinn would, because, "Paris is at the top of Quinn's list of cities to visit one day." They'd once had a two hour conversation about all of the places on their ultimate vacation wish lists after they'd stumbled over a travel channel special—one of the rare ones that still occasionally air about _actual_ _travel_ —on the world's most tourist friendly cities. Quinn would have loved every one of those cheesy touristy things that Peter had done and probably would have gone looking for just as many hidden gems in order to experience a true taste of Parisian life. "With the two of you extolling its virtues, I think I definitely need to go."

Peter tilts his head slightly, tapping his fingertips against the side of his glass as he studies her with an inscrutable expression. "Well, you should put London on your list too," he advises after a moment, face clearing. "It might not be quite as romantic as Paris, but the history is just," he trails off, smiling widely as his eyes begin to sparkle with unconcealed delight.

"It's _awesome_ , Rachel. There's so much history in that city and the surrounding countryside, and I was able to experience it all firsthand. I mean, I actually got to play Demetrius in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ at Shakespeare's Globe Theatre," he effuses, and really, it should probably sound like he's bragging, but he's so giddy about the whole thing that Rachel can't help but find it endearing. "Granted, it isn't the original Globe, but it's a damned authentic recreation, and it's as close to the original location as they could build it, right on the Thames River. It was a dream come true."

"You always did love Shakespeare most of all," she recalls fondly, truly happy that he was able to have that experience.

"I was incredibly lucky. One of my castmates from _Reason_ got me the audition, and the director actually liked me enough to take a chance on me."

"So were you mostly doing Shakespeare after the play closed?"

"For a few months last summer, yeah," he answers with a nod. "But then I was cast as Vince in a revival of _Buried Child_ at Trafalgar Studios. That ended in early April."

It's mid-May now, which means Peter only came back to New York very recently. Rachel can't help feeling a little smug that he'd called her up so quickly. Of course, the announcement of her Tony nomination last week might have had something to do with that—not that she thinks _that_ would be the only reason he'd get in touch with her. Peter isn't that kind of person, or he hadn't been before, but if he'd been paying attention to the Broadway news at all, (and he always used to) then he really couldn't have avoided the timely reminder of his ex-girlfriend.

"It sounds like you were pretty successful over there," she muses, growing increasingly curious as to why he'd left.

Peter shrugs. "I landed a few roles, but those plays only ran a couple of months. I still needed a more reliable income to make sure I could pay the rent on time, so I worked most mornings at this little bookshop in the West End."

Rachel grins at that. "Of course you did." It's what he'd done before he went to London, after all, and more than that, books are what he _loves_ —second to acting, of course.

"It's better than waiting tables."

"And you do love your books," she teases. _Just like Quinn_.

"I do," he agrees easily, smiling. "The shop I worked at mostly sold esoteric titles, but there were so many second hand shops that sold these old, worn copies of the classics. I bought more than a few of them, and I was walking the same streets where so many of the great novelists and poets and playwrights once walked," he pauses, shaking his head in awe. "It was truly inspiring. And, of course, you know I couldn't leave England without visiting Stratford-upon-Avon."

Rachel _does_ know. Peter could no more resist seeing William Shakespeare's birthplace than she could resist visiting Barbra's—although she suspects Stratford-upon-Avon was probably more aesthetically appealing than Brooklyn.

Peter reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket to pull out his phone, fiddling with it as he continues to talk. "Rachel, it was like stepping back into the Elizabethan era. Most of the buildings look like they've been frozen in time. I almost expected to see Shakespeare roaming the streets. Well, the real one," he amends with a wry grin as he passes his phone over the table to her, "not the one that's out for the tourists."

Rachel takes his phone, glancing down at the photos in his gallery that he'd pulled up for her. The first one is of a brown-trimmed Tudor house sitting on a redbrick street, and the ones that follow reveal more of the same, accented by green trees, tranquil ponds, and colorful gardens. Rachel can easily see why he'd been so charmed by it.

"Quinn would have loved all of that," she decides as she scrolls through the photos, almost able to picture her strolling through the quaint, little village in a breezy summer dress. Of course, Quinn isn't nearly as enamored with Shakespeare as Peter—she's more of a Jane Austen girl—but she does adore Belvedere Castle, and she'd definitely liked Shakespeare in the Park when Rachel had taken her to see a production of _Twelfth Night_ last summer, so Rachel can't imagine that she _wouldn't_ enjoy everything that Peter has been describing.

"Mmm. Probably," Peter responds distantly, brow furrowed again. "What about you? Would _you_ have loved it?"

"Oh, of course," she confirms with a smile, handing his phone back to him. The photos definitely make her wish she could see the sites for herself. "I mean, I'm not nearly as much of a literature enthusiast as you and Quinn, but I've always enjoyed exploring new places, and I certainly would have been interested in experiencing the London theater. Oh…and seeing Buckingham Palace," she realizes with increasing interest, eyes widening. "Did you get to see the queen? Or William and Kate?"

Peter's brow smooths out as he laughs, shaking his head. "No. Sadly, I wasn't privileged enough to catch sight of a royal. I _did_ see Buckingham Palace though. It was only about a twenty minute walk from the Duke of York's Theatre where we did _Reason_ ," he reveals with a fond smile. "For the first few months I was over there, I wandered around the city every free minute between rehearsals and shows, determined to explore something new every day. I'd only take the tubes back to my flat when I was ready to drop from exhaustion."

"The tubes? Your flat?" Rachel echoes mischievously. "You almost sound like a bonafide Londoner now." That hint of an accent that she'd noticed on the phone is still coloring a handful of his words—though his diction always had been exceptional. "I'm surprised you didn't stay over there," she prods, once again wondering what had brought him back when it sounds as though he'd been having the time of his life.

Peter sighs, shrugging again. "I missed New York. As much as I loved London, it didn't feel like _home_ , so I thought I'd give the theater here another go."

"I can understand that." There's no place quite like New York. And if she remembers correctly, Peter's family lives in northern Virginia, which is a much easier trip to make from New York than from London. She suspects that probably had something to do with his decision. Rachel can't imagine being a continent away from her dads for such an extended period of time—not to mention her friends.

"I sublet my apartment when I left," Peter continues conversationally, "and the two year lease is up in October, so I'll be able to move back in then. I'm crashing with a friend right now…you remember Paul?" he questions, and Rachel smiles, nodding in affirmation. She'd always found it exceedingly amusing that Peter has a friend named Paul, who'd been dating a girl named Mary.

"I've been out on a few auditions already, and I even got a callback for one, so fingers crossed. And if that doesn't work out," he adds with a sheepish grin, "I've got my application in at a few local bookstores."

"I'm sure you'll be getting more than one callback," she assures him with a supportive smile. "Directors would be crazy not to want you. They'll be begging you to star in their plays before you know it. And I can always give you my agent's number if you need it. Evelyn would probably love to have a handsome, classically-trained actor to shop around."

Peter chuckles, smiling indulgently. "I've really missed having you as a cheerleader, Rachel."

"Oh, I'm no cheerleader," she denies, immediately waving off the notion. "That's Quinn's forte." In more ways than one. "I'm just an excellent judge of talent, being so very talented myself."

"And still so modest," he observes with a chuckle.

Rachel scoffs. "Like you're any better, Mr. Hopped-Over-To-Paris-Between-Starring-In-Plays-On-The-West-End."

"Guilty," he laughingly agrees with a nod, stifling his mirth when the waitress reappears once again to set his salad plate in front of him and deliver a basket of wheat rolls to the table.

After thanking her, Peter sits back in his chair and picks up his fork, though he doesn't immediately turn his attention to his food. Instead, he says, "So, tell me about you, Rachel. I want to hear all about your awe-inspiring rise to Broadway stardom."

It's her turn to chuckle. "I don't know how awe-inspiring it was," she confesses before taking another sip of her wine.

"Now you _are_ being modest."

"No, not really," she insists with a shrug, setting down her glass. "I mean, you remember my short off-Broadway run in that _Perfect Harmony_ revival?"

It's mostly a rhetorical question—she'd done (and been done with) the show a few months before Peter had broken up with her—but he answers with a confident, "I do."

"That wasn't exactly the springboard into a major Broadway production that I hoped it would be." In fact, it was only two months—three and half if she counts the rehearsals and audition—in a very small theatre with next to no set or production budget. Still, she'd been so happy to land it at the end of her third year at NYADA, thinking it would be the first step to mounting an amazing Broadway premiere, but it (and she) hadn't gotten any real notice, and, "I wasn't able to land another job until the following spring, and _that_ was in the ensemble of _Wicked_."

Peter's eyebrows lift. " _Wicked,_ " he repeats with a trace of reverence, clearly impressed by the revelation. "Rachel, that's a pretty noteworthy line-item on your resume."

"The _ensemble_ , Peter," Rachel stresses, affronted by the mere memory of it.

" _Wicked_ , Rachel," he counters playfully.

Rachel sighs in surrender. She never can manage to gain very much sympathy for the hardship of swaying in the background of a very successful, long-running Broadway musical.

"I know. Believe me, I was happy to have a steady income," and she can admit that it had been thrilling just to be on that stage in front of an eager audience for the first twenty or so performances, "but it was very disheartening to be drowning in a sea of green every night while the main cast received all the applause. Green really isn't my best color," she admits sardonically. It's true in more ways than one.

"I kept auditioning for other roles, of course, but," she shrugs, frowning. "Well, honestly, it was like I was living that scene in _A Chorus Line_ over and over. Directors would tell me that they loved my voice and my timing was great but I just wasn't what they were looking for." Her lips quirk in mild contempt. "Voice ten; looks three," she mutters, adapting Val's lament to suit her own sad shortcomings. Instead of needing tits and ass to get noticed—because frankly, Rachel is confident that the ones she was born with are _well_ above average—she'd needed the nose-job that she'd passed on in high school.

"At least one of them obviously felt differently," Peter observes kindly.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "James…James Robbins, the director for _West Side Story_ ," she clarifies, realizing belatedly that Peter probably wouldn't know to whom she's referring. "He said, and I quote, 'I love your voice, and you pull off innocent ingénue fairly convincingly, but I'm not sure you have the right look for Maria,'" she recites verbatim. And well—admittedly, she isn't Puerto Rican, so if ethnic authenticity had been the _look_ they'd been after, Rachel might have understood the initial rebuff. But she _knows_ that isn't what James was referring to.

Peter frowns in confusion. "But you got the part."

"After two callbacks," Rachel discloses, holding up two fingers to punctuate her point, "and apparently, it was the producer, Robert Tremaine, who kept nudging James to cast me. He thought my…and again, I quote," she informs him, curling her fingers to form imaginary quotation marks around the words, "'unique look'would work quite well for Maria and that I'd bring 'something different' to the part."

A muscle tics in Peter's jaw before he shakes his head, dropping his fork to reach across the table and take Rachel's hand. "You're _beautiful_ , Rachel," he vows ardently. "Anyone who doesn't recognize that is blind."

A little flush of pleasure warms Rachel's cheeks at the compliment, and she squeezes his hand in gratitude before letting go. "Thank you, Peter." Quinn had said something similar. Actually, she'd said, _fuck them, Rachel. They're wrong. You're perfect for the part, and they'll be making a huge mistake if they don't cast you._ But that was Quinn being a supportive friend—the best cheerleader ever.

"I know I'm…not unattractive," Rachel hedges, still not quite able to claim her beauty as enthusiastically as she does her talent. "But those directors and producers and choreographers are all looking for the kind of beauty that fills seats for their shows, and I'm always going to be battling against the predetermined image they have in mind for their program covers and posters." Posters that, even in Rachel's mind, always seem to feature a leading actress who looks more like—well, like _Quinn_. "That's why having Maria on my resume is so much more meaningful than chorus girl number two in _Wicked_ ," she explains, seeing Peter's eyes soften in understanding even as her own narrow in determination. "And having a Tony to my name will make every director and producer and choreographer choke on their next _not-what-we're-looking-for_."

Peter chuckles at her ruthless tone. "I think you're well on your way, Rachel. Nothing will keep you off that stage now. It's where you belong."

A delighted smile pulls at her lips. "That's what Quinn tells me too." It's what Quinn has been telling her since they were teenagers, so it must be true.

Peter's expression shifts, a faint frown pulling at his lips as he stares at her curiously. "And you obviously value Quinn's opinion very highly."

There's something about the way he says it that has Rachel's eyes snapping to his—a hint of irritation coloring his gaze—and she finds herself mirroring his frown. "Oh…well…of course," she stammers, feeling an odd flutter in her stomach that she can't quite explain. "She's my best friend," Rachel defends, suddenly feeling very protective of their relationship. She'd worked so hard for it, and they've come so far from where they'd started. Of _course_ Quinn's good opinion means everything to her.

The thought sends a strange sort of awareness creeping over her.

"Yeah, I remember," Peter murmurs stoically before turning his attention back to his salad.

Rachel's frown deepens as she watches him take a bite without really seeing it. Her mind is still fixated on the way Peter had looked at her when he'd mentioned Quinn's name.

 _You mean when_ you _mentioned Quinn's name_ , a little voice challenges.

No, he'd been the one to—oh! With a start, Rachel realizes just how many times she's brought Quinn into the conversation tonight, and she suddenly feels incredibly silly. No wonder Peter keeps looking at her that way. He isn't here to talk about Quinn. He's here to talk about _them_.

Her stomach churns for no apparent reason, and she reaches for her glass, taking another sip of the wine to settle her nerves as she silently vows to keep Quinn out of the conversation. Putting her glass down, Rachel forces a smile. "So…tell me more about London. Make me _feel_ like I'm there experiencing it with you," she encourages, hoping that she seems appropriately enthusiastic.

Peter's gaze searches her face for what feels like forever, nearly making Rachel squirm in her seat, before he smiles indulgently. "As the lady commands," he submits, pausing to take a drink of beer before he launches back into the conversation. "So…my _flat_ was in Shepherd's Bush…."

Rachel leans back in her chair, smiling while she listens to the pleasant cadence of his voice tell her more about his adventures abroad. She'd meant what she told Quinn on Thursday—she really does enjoy listening to him speak. Almost as much as she enjoys listening to—

The edges of her smile tremble slightly, because as much as she wants to hear about London, she's suddenly very conscious that she _should not_ be thinking about Quinn every time Peter mentions a historical landmark that he'd visited or a secondhand book that he couldn't resist buying or a poetry reading that he'd attended in the Fitzroy Tavern or a French delicacy that he'd been talked into trying at a restaurant in Paris.

But for some reason that's _all_ she can seem to think about for the rest of their dinner.

That Quinn would love exploring London; that she already has a copy of that very same book that Peter had discovered tucked snugly into her overflowing bookcase; that she'd have been right there at that poetry reading because she's spent the last year dragging Rachel to ones all over Manhattan (and the Bronx and Staten Island too); that Quinn's French accent is so much sexier than Peter's.

Rachel nearly spills her wine when that particular thought flits through her head, righting her glass just in time and carefully leaving it rest on the table. Peter furrows his brows and asks her if she's okay, and Rachel nods stupidly and assures him that she is.

She's very much not.

She can't stop thinking about Quinn.

A wicked wave of déjà vu crashes down over her until she feels like she can barely breathe. The last time she'd been so aware of Quinn dominating her thoughts this much—a shiver races down her spine at the memory. Back then it had been _Finn_ complaining that she wasn't fully present with him and attempting to distract her from her worry and guilt over Quinn after the accident. But Rachel has no reason to be so preoccupied with her _now_. Quinn is healthy and happy and safe and probably out with Santana at one of those clubs they like to frequent, picking up some gorgeous, _easy_ woman to take home and—damn it!

Why is this happening to her tonight?

She's on a _date_ with _Peter_!

Peter, with his brown hair and green eyes and handsome face who is _nothing_ like Quinn—except that he is. He's _so_ much like her. They have nearly identical tastes in literature and film and art, and they can both be so quiet and almost brooding at times but then just light up and speak so eloquently on subjects that inspire them, and they both find humor in the weirdest things and love to tease Rachel with their straight faces and deadpan deliveries and—

 _Oh my God!_ Rachel realizes, staring at Peter with sudden comprehension.

_He reminded me of Quinn. That's why I….that's why I liked him so much._

She can remember overhearing him talk about Robert Burns during one of her very first rehearsals as a member of the theater company they'd been in together and thinking that she could just jump right into the conversation because Quinn had once mentioned a few of his poems to her. It had been something of a disaster, and all of Rachel's friendly overtures were met with cool disregard after that because Peter found her somewhat irritating. Rachel merely resolved to work harder to win his affection because— _because that's what I did with Quinn and she was so very much worth the effort_.

"Are you sure you're feeling well, Rachel?" Peter asks again, worry clear in his eyes. "Is there something wrong with your dinner? Let me call the waitress," he offers, raising his hand to flag her down.

Rachel shakes her head sharply, reaching out to touch his arm and urge him to lower it. "I…my dinner is fine, Peter," she assures him, glancing down at her half-full plate. The food had been as delicious as always. It's _Rachel_ that's off. "I'm sorry," she breathes out around a shaky smile. "I think I just got really lost in my own thoughts for a moment."

"They must have been some pretty heavy thoughts," he guesses, obviously still concerned. The compassion in his eyes only makes Rachel feel worse, and she struggles to dig herself out from under the weight of those heavy thoughts.

Peter is still the same intelligent, caring man that he'd been when they were together. He's attractive and talented, and they have so many shared goals and complementary interests. There was a time when Rachel thought he was the perfect man for her—aside from that mild allergy to complete intimacy that had kept him clinging to his space in his own apartment and content to let Rachel keep hers. It had bothered her somewhat at the time but not nearly as much as it should have. She'd never felt strongly enough about living with him to really push him to take that step—and well, she'd also still been in _college_ at the time.

She'd missed him after he'd gone but not as much and for not as long as she should have if he'd truly been _the one_.

What she'd really missed was having _someone—_ but not as much as she would have if she didn't have Quinn.

Rachel thinks of Quinn then (more so than she already has been); of that rare unguarded smile that lights up her face and delights Rachel every time she sees it; of expressive hazel eyes and a physical beauty that only complements the amazing woman beneath. She thinks how wonderful it is to have Quinn so close to her now; how she looks forward to seeing her and savors every moment in her company. How being with Quinn is the best part of her week.

She remembers the way her entire body would coil with inexplicable tension every time Quinn would talk about Sarah Cartwright; the way it _still does_ whenever Quinn mentions a new woman that she's met.

She thinks of how she's spent most of this dinner with Peter drawing parallels between him and Quinn, and she realizes with increasing anxiety that she's pretty much done the same thing during her last several dates—and every one of those men had failed to meet the bar that Rachel now understands has been set by Quinn.

Rachel isn't entirely certain what it means. Oh, she has a fairly strong inkling, of course—a confusing, complicated, life-altering, how-could-she-have-been-so-blind-for-so-long inkling—but she's not fully capable of processing it while she's sitting across from her ex-boyfriend.

"Peter, what is this?" she finally asks, needing to sort out the one thing that she _is_ capable of processing right now. "I mean, are we just catching up? Or were you hoping that we might be able to get back what we used to have?"

The smile Peter offers her is shaded with regret. "I suppose I wanted to see if there was still something between us," he admits, keen eyes traveling over Rachel's face, "but we've just been catching up, haven't we?"

Rachel inhales deeply, holding the breath in her lungs for a moment before releasing it slowly. "I…I think we have." She'd been hoping it might be more, but she can't ignore the growing sensation that something is missing—and that _something_ suddenly feels very much like _Quinn_.

Peter sighs. "I guess that's what I get for throwing away a good thing."

He sounds almost apologetic, and Rachel finds herself needing to absolve him for whatever mistake he thinks he might have made. "You didn't throw it away. You recognized it was time to move on."

Had he stayed in New York, Rachel might have eventually come to that realization too without needing him to push her into it. Their relationship had started strong but gradually faded into something close to an afterthought. In those last months before their breakup, they were nearly as content to spend time apart (and with their own friends) as to spend it together, so it wasn't a surprise that they'd been able to walk away from one another with next to no drama or regrets. Rachel will always care about Peter, but she isn't in love with him anymore, and she doesn't think she can be again.

Peter nods, wordlessly agreeing with her assessment. "You've always been too good for me anyway," he teases in a surprisingly lighthearted tone. "But then, no man will ever truly be worthy of you, Rachel."

 _But a woman might be_.

A mildly hysterical laugh bubbles up at the wayward thought, and Rachel presses a hand to her lips to stifle it, shaking her head as she tries to regain her composure. "I…I think you might be right," she finally manage before she reaches for her wine once again, taking a much-needed drink.

She has no idea what she's going to do about the revelation.

After another thirty minutes or so, Rachel's evening with Peter comes to an end. He snags the check before she can make a weak attempt to split it with him—he _had_ been the one to invite her out, after all, even if the evening didn't go quite the way she'd expected—and then he politely escorts her out of the restaurant.

He even insists on helping her flag down a taxi, going so far as to offer to share the ride and pay her fare, but they're going in different directions, so she thanks him for his thoughtfulness but declines.

There's a moment before they say their goodbyes, promising to stay in touch, when she gazes up at him and thinks again that he's really such a wonderful man. Everything would be so much easier if she could feel something _more_ for him again, so she rocks up onto her toes and brushes a soft, fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth—part of her still hoping that some distant spark might suddenly reignite.

It doesn't.

Rachel drops back to her heels with a sigh.

"Just making sure?" Peter asks with cheerful amusement, quirking an eyebrow as he grins down at her.

Rachel blushes, ducking her head in embarrassment. "Goodnight, Peter," is her only answer.

He reaches out to cup her biceps, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Goodnight, Rachel," he echoes, bending to press a chaste kiss to her cheek. "Take care of yourself."

She nods. "You, too."

He holds open the door while Rachel slides into the taxi, and then he offers her a final grin as he instructs her to, "Say hello to Quinn for me," closing the door on her surprised gasp.

Rachel is still gaping at him when the taxi jerks away from the curb, wondering why he would say that—if he could have possibly guessed at the jumbled thoughts that have been stampeding through her mind for the better part of the evening. Only the driver's gruff, "Where to, lady?" snaps her out of it.

After giving him her destination, Rachel leans back in the seat and closes her eyes, feeling a familiar sting behind the lids when her thoughts drift back to Quinn. Her best friend. The woman she's been closer to than any other woman in her life. The woman who occupies so many of her thoughts. The person she can't imagine being without.

Hundreds of little moments dance through her mind, from the elation of their very first hug back in high school to the blissful enjoyment of their most recent dinner and all the smiles and tears and hopes and fears that they'd shared with one another in between. None of those moments taken on their own are necessarily anything more than moments shared between best friends.

But this is _Quinn_ , and Quinn has always been— _something_ _more_.

She's the girl that Rachel had always been so very determined to win over, even when Quinn used to treat her so awfully. And yes—Rachel can recognize that some of that had been driven by her own need for validation from the most popular girl in school, but mostly it had been her incomprehensible captivation with Quinn Fabray—the prettiest girl Rachel has ever met.

And oh, sweet Barbra! She'd actually _said_ that to Quinn. Out loud. More than once!

And she'd _meant_ it.

Quinn is _beautiful_ –breathtakingly so.

But that's normal, isn't it? For a woman to find another woman almost painfully beautiful? To admire her grace and strength and intelligence? To occasionally get lost in her eyes while they turn from golden brown to green? To categorize each and every one of her smiles and attempt to decipher what they mean? To fall in love with the way she says certain words to the point of trying to find ways to make her say them more often? To feel warm all over whenever she says _your name_ in that husky, tremulous alto?

Oh, God. That's _not_ normal, is it?

Just like it's not normal to ask your mutual ex-boyfriend what it was like to kiss her.

Or to make him buy her the perfect corsage for prom, complete with a green ribbon to match her eyes.

Or to be so desperate to have her at your dreadfully reckless wedding that you'd rather not marry your fiancé at all than get married without _her_ there beside you.

Or to feel like your entire world is crashing down around you when she's hurt.

Or to blow off your boyfriend to spend even the smallest amount of time with her.

Or to touch her at every opportunity because you just _need_ to.

Or to practically rejoice when her annoying girlfriend breaks her heart because it means _you_ get to be the one to comfort her.

Or to _twat-swat_ her attempts to flirt with viperous redheads because you—because you're _jealous_.

Rachel is jealous.

She's jealous of the deli girl that Quinn wants to ask out.

She was jealous of Connie Tremaine for trying to sink her talons into Quinn on _Rachel's_ opening night.

She was _insanely_ jealous of Sarah Cartwright.

She's fairly certain she's even jealous of Josie Deveraux.

And Santana.

"I think I'm in love with Quinn," she whispers for the first time, squeezing her eyes closed even tighter against the tears that are sneaking out from under the lids.

"You say something, lady?" the driver calls back.

Rachel startles, eyes flying open as she clears her throat. "No. Thank you," she answers gruffly, hastily wiping away the moisture on her cheeks.

A brief assessment of the world speeding by outside the window reveals that they're nearly to her building, so Rachel manages to compose herself and _not_ think about Quinn for the rest of the short ride. When the taxi finally comes to a stop, she quickly pays the driver and walks to her apartment on shaky legs, locking the door once she's safely inside.

She kicks off her heels and collapses onto her sofa, haphazardly tossing her purse onto the coffee table on the way down. Her cell phone slips halfway out and comes to rest with its message indicator flashing, and Rachel sucks in a breath when she sees it.

It could be anything. _Anyone_. It could even be Peter making sure she got home safely. But that particular swirl of anticipation in her belly tells her that she _wants_ it to be Quinn.

She reaches for her phone, tapping in her passcode and seeing several texts. One is from her costar, Brian—undoubtedly some stray thought that he couldn't wait until tomorrow to share. One is from Kurt. One is from her dad. And one is from Quinn.

That's the one she opens with trembling fingers.

_**Hey, Rach. Hope your evening is going well. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. ;)** _

_**Call me tomorrow and let me know how it went** _ _**.** _ _**~ Q** _

Fresh tears gather in her eyes as she reads the messages, even as she chuckles at Quinn's winking double entendre. It's a habit to hit the reply icon—before tonight she would have responded with a brief assurance that she'd had a nice time and she'd talk to Quinn tomorrow—but her fingers freeze and her mind goes completely blank before she can type anything. A breezy text about her non-date suddenly feels so very insignificant in light of her newly realized feelings for the woman on the other end of the exchange.

She has no idea what she should say, so she cancels the reply and nearly throws her phone in frustration before she stops herself. She opens her gallery instead and pulls up a photo of Quinn from two weeks ago that Rachel had snapped during their afternoon at Riverside Park, and her heart leaps into her throat and flutters wildly as she reverently traces her finger over the image Quinn's gorgeous, smiling face. Rachel smiles around her tears, feeling the pieces of a puzzle that she didn't know were missing click firmly into place.

She hasn't always felt this way. Quinn has been so many things to her over the years—tormenter, rival, teammate, friend—and Rachel's feelings for her had bounced around every peak and valley of the spectrum until they settled into the slow-building affection that's carried her here. She can't even begin to pinpoint when exactly that affection had started to deepen into something more, and she doesn't have a clue what she's supposed to do about it now.

If Quinn were a man—oh lord, if she were a man, Rachel would have probably fallen in love with her when she was fifteen and never looked back. Quinn is certainly a much better dancer than Finn had ever been, and her occasional tendency to go sharp is easily corrected with practice. She would have ticked off every checkbox on Rachel's list of desirable qualities for a leading man in the epic teen romance that was her life at the time.

Rachel feels a little sick at the realization that the _only_ quality Quinn had truly lacked had been that she very definitely _isn't_ a _man._ She'd always considered herself to be so open-minded in that regard. She'd been raised to believe that love is love and that gender doesn't matter, and she's never even assigned a strict label to her own sexuality, preferring to imagine that she'd follow wherever her heart might lead her. So why hadn't she ever considered that she could feel this way about Quinn?

 _Maybe because Quinn could never feel that way about you_.

Her heart clenches painfully and her teeth sink into her lip to quell the urge to sob. At fifteen, Rachel had been certain that Quinn Fabray _hated_ her for no reason other than the fact that she existed. She knows that any seeds of a crush that she might have sown for the head cheerio would have been squashed beneath the heel of Quinn's pristine white sneaker to the beat of the daily insults that Quinn had hurled at her. Rachel hadn't been quite _that_ much of a masochist back then. And once Finn was in the picture, Rachel wasn't able to see past him for a very long time.

And then—well, Rachel can recognize now that she'd had a certain ideal in mind for her future partner, and Quinn hadn't fit her predetermined image. She laughs humorlessly at the irony of that.

Rachel might not have consciously labeled her sexuality, but she'd certainly focused her romantic fantasies exclusively on men. She'd never allowed herself to seriously consider any other option.

Instead, she'd resolved to make Quinn her friend in any way that she could. And she _had_. Quinn is her very best friend now, even more so than Kurt, and Rachel has no doubt that Quinn cares about her so much, but she's _seen_ some of the women that Quinn has dated in the last four years. There's no way Rachel could ever compete with them. And the one woman that Quinn _had_ actually fallen in love with is nearly the polar opposite of Rachel in every conceivable way. If pretty, tomboyish, Broadway-hating _Sarah Cartwright_ is the type of woman that can capture Quinn's heart—well, Rachel doesn't really stand a chance.

But does she want a chance?

Because she has to be _sure_. She can't risk her friendship for Quinn on anything less than absolute certainty.

Rachel continues to gaze at Quinn's beloved face, thinking of every smile, every word, every little touch, every moment they've shared since Rachel could finally call Quinn her friend, and every moment apart that Rachel spends eager for the next time she'll see Quinn. There's no one in the world that she'd rather be with than Quinn. No one's opinion matters more to her. No one makes her as happy.

The certainty of it wraps around her like a well-loved blanket.

Rachel has been happier in the last year than she can ever remember being in her life, and she hasn't been dating _anyone._

Except Quinn.

She's been dating _Quinn_. She just hadn't realized it until tonight, and now that she has, Rachel knows that she'd give anything for a chance to be with Quinn _for_ _real_. To be _hers_. To hold her and kiss her (and the thought of _that_ has her blood singing with excitement in new and unexpected ways) and make her as happy as she makes Rachel.

She just doesn't know if Quinn could ever want the same thing.

Rachel sinks deeper into the sofa with a shaky sigh, pressing the phone to her chest as she considers her options. All of them bring her firmly back to Quinn, and one answer becomes achingly clear.

She needs to find out if there's any hope for her to win Quinn Fabray's heart, even if it means breaking her own.


End file.
